At the Sheikh's Bidding

by Chantelle Shaw

  Experience told him that it would probably burn itself out, although right now that was hard to imagine, when the mere sight of tousled red curls tumbling over her white shoulders was enough to make his stomach muscles tighten. But what more could he ask from marriage than a devoted mother to the son he now regarded as his own and sexual satisfaction on tap? He should feel highly pleased with himself, he decided as he rolled onto his side and trailed his hand possessively over Erin’s body. No doubt the curious empty feeling inside him was because he hadn’t eaten for hours.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ERIN stirred and opened her eyes to find that it was no longer pitch-black inside the tent but a soft, pearly grey in the hour before dawn. There was plenty of time to go back to sleep, and heaven knew she needed to rest after another night of incredible passion with Zahir, but the memory of how he had made love to her last night, their fifth night in the desert, caused the familiar tug of desire low in her stomach.

  She’d learned early on that he liked it when she initiated sex. He was a light sleeper, and she had only to dip beneath the sheets and circle her hand around his manhood and he would respond instantly.

  But maybe she should let him sleep, she thought, her lids fluttering down once again. Since their arrival at his camp they had slipped into a routine of rising late and going to bed early, and spent the few remaining hours swimming in the pool or strolling a little way into the desert. Zahir had an extensive knowledge of the plants and the surprising numbers of birds and wildlife that flocked to the oasis. And after the sun had turned into a huge orange ball every evening, and sunk below the horizon, he would stand with her in the quiet desert and point out the hundreds of star formations in the inky sky.

  After their stormy wedding night they had settled into an uneasy truce which had developed into a tentative friendship. He was an entertaining companion, and she was fascinated to hear tales of his boyhood, growing up at the palace, and of his close relationship with Faisal. He’d explained that Faisal and his three sisters were his half-siblings, children of King Kahlid’s first wife, who had died when Faisal was a baby. Two years after the Queen’s death the King had married Zahir’s mother, Georgina. Erin had detected from his tone that the marriage had not been a happy one, and although Zahir made light of the fact that Georgina had left Qubbah and returned to America when he was eleven, she wondered if his mistrust of women had anything to do with the fact that his mother had abandoned him.

  She should have felt heartened by his genuine interest in her own childhood—it was the biggest sign he had given her that he viewed her as more than simply his sex partner—but she carefully avoided giving details of the appalling lack of care she had suffered during her early years, and the sense of utter loneliness she’d felt living at the children’s home.

  How could Zahir, who had grown up in a large, loving family, understand that her longing to belong somewhere had led her to join the gang that had hung around the shopping mall? Her new ‘friends’ had been the only people who had ever shown any interest in her. Of course now she looked back and saw how they had used kindness to groom her, but back then she had been a vulnerable teenager, desperate to be accepted by the gang and pathetically grateful for their praise when she proved to be an adept shoplifter for them.

  Memories of her childhood reminded her of the vast differences between her and Zahir’s social standing, and she had become adept at turning the conversation to other topics. But she could not forget her past, and it gnawed at her confidence. Zahir was a prince, and she shuddered to think of his reaction if he ever learned that her mother had been a prostitute and a drug addict.

  She fidgeted restlessly beneath the sheets, knowing she would not fall back to sleep now. The only time she forgot her insecurities was when she was in Zahir’s arms, swept up in the world of sensual pleasure he created. She reached across the bed, expecting to feel the solid warmth of his chest, but he wasn’t there—and when her eyes flew open she found the bed empty. Despite telling herself that there were any number of reasons why he had left her alone, she could not dispel her feeling of unease—a feeling that increased second by second when he did not reappear.

  Should she go and look for him? She had flicked back the sheets and was just sliding her arms into her robe when he walked back into the tent. She knew instantly that something was very wrong.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked urgently. ‘Kazim…?’

  Zahir shook his head. ‘He’s fine, but my father suffered a heart attack two hours ago.’ He ignored her shocked cry and continued in a controlled voice. ‘Early indications are that it was a mild attack, but he will remain under close observation by his doctors in the hospital wing of the palace.’

  He raked his hand through his hair and frowned at her, as if surprised to see her in her nightgown. ‘You must get dressed. We have to return to the palace immediately. Until my father is well enough I will take his place as the King of Qubbah.’

  Erin didn’t know why his words filled her with such foreboding. She’d known that King Kahlid had appointed Zahir as interim ruler, until the true heir to the throne, Kazim, came of age. But only now did she appreciate the enormity of being the supreme ruler of an entire nation. Already Zahir seemed distant—although that was hardly surprising when he must be worried about his father.

  She jumped up and firmly banished her fears that they would never recapture the unexpected closeness they’d shared on their honeymoon. She was Zahir’s wife and consort, and she had a duty to aid him in the role that had been thrust upon him. ‘I can be ready to leave in five minutes,’ she said quietly. He nodded and swung round to walk back out of the tent, but she glimpsed the flare of pain in his eyes and sympathy flooded through her.

  He had told her once that he thought love was overrated, but his casual dismissal of the emotion clearly did not include his feelings for his father. He loved the King, and she could not bear to think of his heartbreak if the elderly monarch should not recover. These past few days Zahir had shown her that, far from having a heart of stone, he had a side to him that was kind and patient, gentle, even tender at times. But just because her heart ached for him, it didn’t mean she cared about him she reassured herself firmly. She had far more sense than to fall in love with him—didn’t she?

  ‘Zahir?’ He looked drawn, almost grey, and on impulse she flew across the tent and flung her arms around his waist. ‘I’m so sorry about your father. I’m sure he’ll be all right.’ She wished she could wave a magic wand and restore the King to full health, but of course that was impossible. All she could do was offer Zahir her support.

  He stared down at her, frowning slightly, and she had a feeling that his mind was focused on the events unfolding at the palace. But then he cupped her chin and tilted her face, his dark eyes meshing with hers. ‘You have a ridiculously soft heart, kalila. I would like to share your misplaced optimism, but father is eighty years old and I am well aware that he cannot live for ever. Your concern is touching,’ he added coolly, ‘but I’m afraid I don’t have time to take you to bed right now.’

  Erin immediately dropped her arms to her sides, blushing furiously because he had clearly mistaken her gesture of sympathy. ‘I didn’t expect you to. I wasn’t suggesting…I was simply trying to show you that I’m here…if you need me.’ She bit her lip, and said in a hurt tone, ‘How can you think I would expect you to make love to me when you’ve just received news that your father is seriously ill?’

  ‘I wasn’t complaining about your eagerness for sex, merely about your timing,’ Zahir drawled.

  His eyes narrowed when she paled, and he resisted the urge to pull her into his arms. He wanted to distance himself from her. The past five days he’d spent with her had been more relaxing than he had expected, and he was surprised at how much he had enjoyed her company—both in bed and out of it. But now it was time to return to the real world. He’d felt ill when he’d first learned of his father’s heart attack, but mixed with concern had been an unexpec
ted feeling of regret that he would have to curtail the honeymoon.

  Irritation swept through him. For reasons he did not understand Erin had got under his skin. It would be good to get back to the routine of palace life. Once he was immersed in affairs of state he was confident he could relegate her to a small corner of his mind.

  ‘As soon as we arrive at the palace it will be necessary for me to meet with my advisors, and I’ve no doubt our discussions will continue all day,’ he informed her. ‘Naturally I will also visit my father, and tonight we will host a pre-arranged banquet in honour of a visiting dignitary.’

  The thought of the long hours ahead until he could take her to bed settled like a lead weight in his chest, and he lowered his head to claim her mouth in a brief, hard kiss. Her instant response sent a surge of satisfaction through him, but he forced himself to step away from the temptation of her gorgeous silk-clad body. ‘We will both have to learn to curb our impatience, kalila. My days will be devoted to duty, but I will expect you in my bed every night.’

  Was that to be her only role in his life—as his glorified whore? Erin brooded miserably. She’d thought they had become friends this past week, but perhaps he had only spent time with her because he’d had nothing else to do? ‘You make it sound as though sex is the only thing between us,’ she said quietly.

  Zahir had walked over to the tent entrance, but he turned at her words and his brows lifted. ‘It is the only thing between us,’ he replied coolly. ‘What else could there possibly be?’

  As Zahir had predicted, his team of advisors were waiting for him when they arrived back at the palace. Even on the journey across the desert he’d had his mobile phone clamped to his ear, and Erin had sat silently beside him, lost in her thoughts. The honeymoon was over, and he had made it abundantly clear that he now viewed her role as his wife as a walk-on part—or perhaps a lie-down part would be a better description? she thought bitterly. But what had she expected? She had married him for Kazim and he had married her for sex—and they had each got what they wanted.

  At least she had Kazim, she consoled herself later that evening, when she tucked the toddler into bed. She had missed him desperately, and his evident delight that she was back was a comforting balm to her raw emotions. She was Zahir’s wife, a member of the Royal Family of Qubbah, and no one could ever take him away from her now.

  But as she prepared for the state banquet her insecurities returned and she felt sick with nerves. She had been horrified when first Bisma and then her two maids had addressed her as ‘Your Royal Highness’, and even though she was wearing a stunning couture gown—a floor-length cream silk sheath with long sleeves and a decorous neckline—she didn’t feel in the least ‘royal’. She was a fraud, she thought dismally, and even the fabulous and no doubt priceless pearl and diamond necklace that Zahir had given her on their wedding day, which complemented her breathtaking diamond solitaire engagement ring, could not magically transform her into a princess.

  It felt as though butterflies were fluttering in her stomach when she walked down the sweeping staircase, and she was so intent on balancing on her three-inch heels that she missed the flare of heat in Zahir’s gaze as he waited for her to join him. She glanced up to find him watching her intently, his eyes hooded so that she had no idea of his thoughts. She wished he would smile at her, maybe take her hand with the easy familiarity he had shown her in the desert. But he was stern and unsmiling and utterly gorgeous in his black dinner jacket and white silk shirt.

  Tonight he was the urbane and sophisticated head of the royal family, but on their honeymoon she had been blown away by his raw masculinity. And although she was glad to be back with Kazim, part of her wished she was still at the camp with her desert prince. She had decided this morning that she would not allow him to treat her like a favourite from his harem, that she would not be available for sex whenever it suited him. But one look at his handsome face and the sensual curve of his mouth and she knew she was kidding herself. Her pride was non-existent where he was concerned, and she would take whatever he offered in their marriage—even if it was only his expertise between the sheets.

  Praying that she did not look as nervous as she felt, she took Zahir’s arm so that he could escort her into the banquet. She was unable to restrain a little shiver of excitement when he bent his head and murmured, ‘You are so very beautiful, kalila, and I fear this is going to be a very long evening.’

  He was right. The seven-course meal seemed to drag on for ever, and after several hours Erin’s jaw ached from smiling politely while she struggled to make conversation with the elite guests from the wealthiest echelons of society in Qubbah and its neighbouring Arab states. Fraught with nerves, she’d developed a headache soon after she had taken her place at the table, and had stared at the vast display of silver cutlery set in front of her in despair.

  The evening was pure torture—made worse when she accidentally knocked over her wine glass and watched in horror as the red stain spread over the pristine damask tablecloth. She didn’t belong here in this world of gilded opulence, and she was miserably aware that she was attracting curious stares from the other guests while the servants fussed around her and mopped up the mess. Then a glance along the table revealed that she was using the wrong fork, and she flushed and quickly exchanged it for the right one, conscious that she was being scrutinised by one guest in particular.

  The woman was sitting a few places down the table, between Zahir and an older man wearing Arab robes. She was stunningly lovely, with rich, mahogany-coloured hair swept back from her face and slanting dark eyes that at this moment were focused on Erin with an expression of utter loathing. Shaken, Erin stared back at her, but the woman turned her head and spoke animatedly to Zahir, laughing with him and shaking her head so that her ornate diamond and ruby earrings sparkled in the light from the chandeliers above.

  ‘Who is the woman standing with Zahir?’ she asked his sister Fatima, when dinner was finally over and the guests were mingling in the Blue Room—so named because of the intricate mosaics of lapis lazuli and gold leaf that adorned the walls.

  Fatima glanced across the room. ‘Oh, that’s Jahmela al Nasser, and her father, Sheikh Fahad. The al Nassers are a very highly respected family in Qubbah, and the Sheikh is one of my father’s most trusted and influential advisors.’

  Fatima sighed and shrugged her plump shoulders. ‘Jahmela is beautiful, isn’t she? And she’s a gifted academic. She has just returned to Qubbah from England, where she was studying at one of the top universities. Zahir would like to offer her a position on the advisory committee,’ she confided to Erin, ‘but he knows he will have to introduce the idea slowly if he is not to upset some of the older members, who still cling to the belief that women should not work alongside men in any role. My brother has great plans for Qubbah, and Jahmela will be a strong ally in his bid to persuade foreign investors to back those plans.’

  ‘She’s obviously clever as well as beautiful,’ Erin murmured, her heart sinking when she thought of the handful of pass grades she had scraped in her basic-level school exams. University had been an unrealistic dream, her main consideration having been to earn a living and support herself once she left the care system, and it was only thanks to her foster parents that she had been able to go to college and train as a nanny.

  Fatima nodded. ‘Of course the al Nassers had hoped—well, expected really—that Zahir would marry Jahmela. I think the fact that he married you may have caused some friction between my father and Sheikh Fahad. But that is all resolved now, and you mustn’t worry about it,’ she added quickly when she saw Erin’s face fall. ‘Forgive me, Erin—I hope I haven’t upset you. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’

  Clearly embarrassed, Fatima determinedly changed the subject to Kazim, and how fast he was growing. But although Erin smiled and made token conversation, her mind was whirling. If Jahmela’s family had expected her to marry Zahir, was she the woman he had been engaged to years ago—the woman Bisma had said
he had loved? But, if so, why had they not married? It didn’t make sense, she brooded miserably as she stared at Zahir. He was smiling at Jahmela and clearly enjoying her company. Perhaps they had argued and broken off their engagement. Was he now regretting his lost chance to marry a beautiful, clever Arab girl who would have made him the perfect wife?

  From that moment on the party became a blur of faces and stilted conversation with people she had never met before. She was sure they viewed her as an oddity, with her pale skin and vivid hair—and her glaring lack of sophistication. But until his father had recovered Zahir was King, and one of her wifely duties outside of the bedroom was to act as his social hostess.

  No one could say she hadn’t tried her best, she brooded wearily as the last guests were driven away and those who were spending the night at the palace were escorted to the guest wing. Jahmela al Nasser and her father were two such guests, and Erin’s spirits had sunk even lower when Fatima had revealed that Zahir had invited them to stay on indefinitely, so that Sheikh Fahad could assist with state affairs.

  She was not jealous of Jahmela, Erin assured herself as she preceded Zahir up the stairs, her stiletto heels tapping on the marble floor as she hurried along the corridor to his private apartments. It had been a difficult evening, and she was suddenly desperate to escape his brooding presence—but he was close behind her, and when he touched her arm she whirled around and glared at him.

  ‘I know I’m expected to walk several steps behind you, but no one is watching us and I really don’t think it’s necessary to stick to the rules of protocol when we’re alone,’ she snapped irritably.

  His brows lifted at her tone. ‘I haven’t noticed that you ever stick to them,’ he murmured dryly. ‘You are a law unto yourself, kalila.’ He ushered her into the apartment and shrugged out of his jacket and tie as he strolled into the sitting room. ‘Would you like a nightcap, or coffee?’